


Six and a half (but in english)

by CaptainSam



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Buried Alive, Claustrophobia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Q (James Bond)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 08:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSam/pseuds/CaptainSam
Summary: He was MI6's quartermaster, he worked with James Bond -007- and Eve Moneypenny, under M's commands. That was good, he could remember that.





	Six and a half (but in english)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an english version of my french fic "Six and a Half". English is not my first language, I did my best, but there's probably mistakes. Be kind and point them to me so I can make it right.

**56 Minutes**

He opened his eyes. Not that it changed anything. The air was dried, stinging his eyes. He lifted his hand to rub his face, but it didn't change anything. He couldn't be blind. It was so dark, he couldn't see a thing. No, he couldn't be blind. It was not an option. He lifted his head, trying to catch a glimpse of something, but darkness was everywhere, stifling. Terrifying. He was not afraid of the dark, he knew that the real monsters weren't hiding there. But his breath sped up anyway. Like his body knew something his mind hadn't understood yet. His head fell back on the hard ground and he bent his knees, ready to sit up and try to figure out where the Hell he was. But his kneecaps hit something, and his breathing got a bit harder to calm down. This wasn't good. He tried to sit up but his forehead hit a hard surface.

_Oh no_

He put his hands up to touch the wooden panel above his body. _Wooden_. Or, at least, it felt like wood. Panic found it's way in his chest as his mind began to put the pieces together. His hands ran along the panel, above him, next to him, under him. Everywhere

_Everywhere_

"Oh no, nononono" he muttered under his panicked breath

A coffin. Not a coffin. He wasn't dead, not yet. He pushed hard against the board above him, but it wouldn't bulge. Fuck! He wasn't Bond, he wasn't as strong as him. He quickly gave up, and try to calm down a bit. It kinda worked, at least until he thought about something, something that terrified him.

_What if I'm buried already?_

Of course he was three feet under. He lost it at this point, and he screamed. He yelled like he never did before, his fists hitting the wood with all his strength. Bond's name occasionally slipped between his terrified howls. He didn't care. He didn't want to die. His nails scratched the surface, scratching again and again, ignoring the pain. He didn't want to die.

He only stopped when his muscles begged for mercy, burning and aching. He laid there, at the bottom of his own coffin, his breathing still to quick.

"Okay" he sighed "You're smarter than that. Try to calm down, and use your fucking brain"

He closed his eyes -that changed nothing at all- and took a deep breath through his nose. He was MI6's quartermaster, he worked with James Bond -007- and Eve Moneypenny, under M's commands. Not the former M, she was dead. M was Mallory, now. That was good, he could remember that. He had to remember what happened to him, now. He was in the MI6 head quarters, working on the current mission -what was it?- when a whole load of mercenaries attacked them. They shoot everyone. Everyone except Q. He wasn't hurt.

Q took a moment to listen to his body. His muscles were in fire, his nails were throbbing in pain, but that was it. No pain. He wasn't hurt.They didn't hurt him. They wanted him, safe and sound, just to throw him in a bloody coffin as soon as they could.

He had to stop panicking. He couldn't afford himself to panic, now. It wouldn't change anything, only make it worse. Shorten his lifespan. His lifespan... He was smart, he could work this out.

He wiggled a bit to assess the size of his prison. A bit longer than him, not really wider, not really higher. Willingly picking over estimated numbers for his weight and his oxygen consommation -thinking about the worse case scenario, here- and considering he used a stupid lot amount of oxygen the last two minutes, thanks to his inability to calm down.... It shouldn't be that hard for him to know. Q took mental notes, calculating time he had ahead of him. He didn't know much about carbon dioxide poisoning, but supposing he'd be unconscious for at least half an hour before dying...

"Seven hours" he whispered. Seven hours, maybe eight if he was lucky. He didn't know how long he'd been lying there before he woke up. According to the soreness of his sacrum and shoulder blades, probably at least thirty minutes. Maybe more. He had, at most, six hours and a half to live.

He forgot to pray God, and began to pray Bond.   
Bond would be the only one able to find him, at this point. And probably the only one who was looking for him, actually.

**244 minutes**

He had a raging headache for a while, now. He couldn't know for how long exactly, but it had been long enough. How long had he been in this wooden box? He tried to count the seconds a while back, but he stopped at two thousands seven hundreds and eighty-three, when his headache became too intense for him to go on. That was forty five minutes. Without the day light, no way to know what time it was. He had lost all his reference points. He didn't even know if it was daytime. He hoped so. Finding him during daytime would not be an easy task, but at night...

He tried everything he could. He went through his pockets, looking for his phone, at first. But, of course, he didn't have his phone. They were not stupid. He had no flashlight, no lighter. No headset either. They didn't leave him anything. They knew who they were dealing with, and they know about their tech. He would have thrown up, if he had something left in his stomach.

Nausea sticked around, and Q wondered if it was a symptom from carbon dioxide poisoning, or from dehydration. He was thirsty. Probably a bit more alarming than carbon dioxide at this point. If he had his phone with him, he would have google it.

No. He would call Bond.Yes, he would do that. Assuming he was not too deep, and still catch a signal. He would call Bond, and the agent would probably turn him away. Unless they were already looking for Q. Then Bond would try to calm him down, make him tell where he is.

"In a bloody coffin, Bond. You should hurry up... I'm dying"

Then Bond would reassure him, tell him everything's gonna be fine, that they were looking for him, spotting his location thanks to his phone signal, asking him to hold on. He was coming for him.

"I trust you, Bond"

The dirt would move above his coffin, the sound of the shovel hitting the lid, Bond's voice from the outside, not from the phone anymore.

We're here, Q. We got you

Q grinned and try to sit up, but his head hit the wooden lid of his coffin, hard enough to bring him back to reality. He closed his eyes and stayed down for a while. Auditory hallucinations? Was that a manifestation from dehydration or carbon dioxide poisoning? Or maybe he was going mad.

There was no Bond, no noise. Just silence, and his breathing -his way too fast breathing-, and his heartbeat. It was going faster. That couldn't be good.

**390 minutes**

Unconsciousness came faster than he anticipated. He thought he'd go to sleep, and never wake up. But no. He fell asleep once, woke up, fell asleep again. Then a third time. Then he lost count. He was getting so tired, it was too hard to count, to stay awake.

He had thought that being buried alive was the worst thing ever. Truth was, once the panic state was left, it wasn't so bad. Painless than being shot. Or drowned, or eaten alive by a shark. No pain, no suffocating. He was breathing well, even though it was less effective now. Besides the dull ache in his fingers, he was doing well. His headache was almost gone.

He was just going to sleep, one last time, and it would be over.

On a positive note, MI6 won't need to bury him, that was done already. Unless they'd give him a pompous burial, with Union Jack on the coffin and all. Maybe they'd cry for him. Well probably not M. Eve would cry, for sure. She liked him. Bond never cried.

They wouldn't care about his death, actually.

Maybe they had stopped looking for him. Or maybe they were just starting. Anyway he was doomed. He was doomed since his abducters closed this bloody coffin.

He felt unconsciousness trying to get him, killing the last bit of hope he still had in him. He felt dizzy again and, if his stomach wasn't empty, he probably would have throw up. But there was nothing left. He was empty. Food, hope and strength. He just had to close his eyes, and let the Grim Reaper come and get him.

There was a dull sound. He almost missed it the first time. But when he heard it again, he jumped, hitting his head against the wood. Q put a trembling hand against the lid, shaking his head to push the Grim Reaper away. Not now. He needed to know what this sound was. He heard it again. Twice in a row. Then a third time, louder. He was not hallucinating. This was really happening. It had to be.

"..Her' ..." his raspy voice barely made it to his own ears. Q coughed a few times and tried again "I'm here!"

His cry was loud and clear, this time. The sounds outside stopped, just for a second, and came back. Louder and faster. Q started to shake hard. Not an hallucination. Please. Don't be. He wouldn't stand it. His heart was racing, now. He coughed a few times again, his lungs tired of breathing a foul air. The adrenalin rushed in his bloodstream and he began to clawed the wood again. He needed to get out. Now more than ever.

There was a loud thud, it made the lid quake. Something -somebody- had fall on his coffin.

"Q!"

He stopped scratching. He stopped breathing. He stopped shaking, his whole body stilled to listen to the voice he could hear from the other side.

"Q!" it repeated, this time filled with worry. Q easily identified it. "Bond..."

He found him. He had looked for him, and he found him.

"Bond! BOND!" He got no answer and he hoped with all his strength left that it was real, that it wasn't again all in his head. He couldn't hope in vain anymore.

After a sudden crack, the sun made its way into the coffin, blinding Q. He closed his eyes, and he felt arms around him, hauling him up. He felt a body against his, trembling, way bigger than he was.

"Q..." Bond's deep voice was soft music to his ears. He cracked an eye open, just a second, long enough to catch a glimpse of the agent's black suit, and hung on to it, ignoring the pain in his fingers.

"Q, breathe... You can breathe, now"

He forgot. He could breathe, he was out. Bond was right. He took a deep breath, hurting his sore lungs, triggering a coughing fit. He felt Bond's burning hand on the back of his neck, holding him close to his chest. Either Bond had a raging fever, or Q was cold as death. Given the situation, it was probably the latter.

Bond was everywhere around him, his nose buried in his hair on top of his head.

"I got you. I found you. You're okay Q. You'll be fine" Q nodded faintly.

And, even if Bond was wrong, he wanted to believe him.


End file.
